


One Last Thing Before I Go

by ellispark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 10x22 and the reverse!crypt scene play an important role, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cancer, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Demon Dean Winchester, Emotional Sex, F/M, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, I will not lie some of this will be very sad, M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Alternating, People who are not Cas and Dean will die just so everyone knows up front, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam plays an important role, Sam's wife and kids, Sexual Content, Tags May Change, Temporary Character Death, The Winchester Family, Torture, brief Dean/others (non-explicit), diverges at 10x23, like an angsty curtain fic, non-canonical darkness, past cas/others, so spoilers till that point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:12:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispark/pseuds/ellispark
Summary: Sam Winchester is dying, and he has one final request — for Castiel to save Dean.But Dean's been gone for 30 years, and when Cas brings him back to the land of the living he seems like nothing more than a demonic shell of his former self, distorted by the Mark of Cain and destroyed by the Darkness that Death banished him to so long ago. It will take more than a spell to save Dean this time, but Cas will stop at nothing to fulfill his friend's dying wish and to raise Dean from perdition again.





	1. Prologue, July 2045

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all!
> 
> So this is my first WIP fic. I plan to update every other Sunday, though life and other writing projects may occasionally get in the way. The first five chapters are already written, so those will be posted on schedule.
> 
> If you have any questions or concerns about the tags, please feel free to send me a message! You can find me on tumblr [here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ellis-park)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You keep the Impala and my dad’s... Dean’s journal,” Sam says, ignoring the startled look Cas gives him. “You’re going to need them.”

_July 2045_

  


Sam Winchester is dying.  
  
Death isn't coming as the shock he imagined it would, back in his teenage years through his mid-thirties, when he pictured himself dying in so many ways — ripped to shreds by a monster, dragged to hell by a demon, smote by an angel, shot by another angry hunter, falling into the pit with Lucifer himself. Some of those actually happened, and yet Sam ultimately survived.  
  
He’s not going to survive this, and he’s known that for quite some time.  
  
Sam’s heard the whispers, muttered by everyone from close friends to the nurses. “It’s a pity,” they all say, or some variation thereof. “He’s not even that old.”  
  
He hates that. Sam should have died ages ago, and he knows it. He shouldn’t have ever hit 30. That fact that he’s here now, still alive at 62, feels like a goddamn miracle. It’s an achievement few other hunters surpass. It’s something to feel proud of.  
  
The monsters never got him. The cancer did. It’s not a pity to lose to something you can’t hit back.  
  
Of course, Sam can’t say that to most people. So he pretends not to hear their patronizing commiserations, and he says what he’s really thinking to those who would actually know what he’s talking about. His wife and Cas, really, are the only ones he’s still honest with. He’s trying too hard to be strong for everyone else.  
  
They’re both in the room now, waiting on more test results. Sam is so damn tired, but he can feel him coming — feel Death coming. He knows it won’t be long now. He’s not going to sleep while they’re here. There are things he has to tell them, if he can find the energy to get the words out.  
  
Ann Marie is pacing at the edge of the bed, on the phone with their eldest daughter, giving out instructions for dinner.  
  
“No, Diana, I swear, you’d think you’d never used an oven,” Ann Marie says, short and snippy. She’s not usually like this with the kids. She’s scared, Sam knows, and she's taking her frustration and fear out on the nearest target, which at this moment happens to be Diana. “No, you’re hitting the microwave buttons. That’s not temperature, it’s the microwave timer.” She groans. “Just order a pizza! I’ll transfer money to your account.”  
  
Cas sits in the chair next to Sam’s bed, watching Ann Marie with a furrowed brow. Sam can tell he wants to say something, defend Diana’s honor — those two have always been ridiculously close — but he doesn’t interrupt.  
  
“Ams,” Sam says, softly, because that’s all he can manage these days.  
  
His wife turns to him, and he can see the way the past year has aged her written so clearly across her face. There are so many lines that were never there before. Even her eyes seem like they've changed; now they're dimmer, harder, and her hair is graying all along the roots.  
  
“Have them come here, after dinner,” he says.  
  
Her face tightens, her lips pressing into a thin line and eyes scrunching in a way that shows how hard she’s trying not to cry. Ann Marie knows what that means.  
  
She exits to the hall, speaking quietly to Diana, and Sam turns his attention to Cas. His friend is worrying a loose button on his jacket, yet another variation of that trench coat he loved so much. Cas buys a new one every couple of years, though he confided in Sam once, “It’s never the same as the first.” Sam is pretty sure Cas wasn’t just talking about the coat.  
  
They’d been drinking whiskey when he said it, sitting on the back porch while Ann Marie and the kids slept, supposedly mourning the end of Cas’s longest, and really only, steady relationship. Cas didn’t actually seem saddened by it, and Sam knew exactly why. He sat huddled in that jacket, his security blanket, sipping whiskey and looking contemplative but not regretful.  
  
“It’s never the same as the first.”  
  
_It’s never the right fit. It’s never Dean._  
  
Sam didn’t say anything in response that day, but he has to say something now.  
  
Cas isn’t looking at him — Sam knows he hates to be reminded of how sick he is, because Cas still feels like his failure to heal the cancer is a failure of his entire mission since 2008, _keep the Winchester safe_. Sam is the wrong Winchester, of course — he knows it, and Cas knows it — but somehow their relationship has evolved to where that doesn’t matter anymore. Cas is Sam’s best friend, Sam is Cas’s. That’s how it’s been for the past 30 years.  
  
“Cas,” he croaks, and gestures to the water on the tableside, just out of reach. Cas hands it to him silently, but Sam can easily read the concern and guilt in the lines on his face. Sam drinks what he can — too much of anything, even water, and his body violently rejects it — and then gestures for Cas to take it away.  
  
“I need to talk to you,” he says once Cas is looking back at him.  
  
“You should rest now, Sam.” Cas shakes his head. “We can talk tomorrow.”  
  
_There won’t be a tomorrow._  
  
“No,” Sam says, more forcefully than he’s managed in weeks. Cas stills. “I need you to do something for me.”  
  
Cas leans toward the bed, responding to the command hidden in Sam’s tone, blue eyes now fierce and determined and focused.  
  
“Anything,” he vows.  
  
Sam’s relationship with Cas has grown significantly in the past few decades, from potential enemy to wary ally to good friends, then best friends and now, something like brothers. Exactly like brothers, really. Sam loves Cas fiercely, in a way that’s only rivaled by how much he loves Ann Marie and the kids, how much he loved (still loves) Dean.  
  
That love for Cas has always been platonic, fraternal. But there are moments when Sam can see with perfect clarity why his brother was so clearly in love with this man, moments like this one. Cas just cares so damn much, with all his being, and it’s written all over his face.  
  
“It’s a few things, actually,” Sam confesses, and Cas just nods, unwavering. Sam decides to start with the obvious first. “I need you to watch over my family.”  
  
Cas’s face falls.  
  
“Sam —”  
  
“No, you have to hear me out,” Sam insists, then briefly breaks off to take in a harsh breath. He can hear Ann Marie open the door, but she must see the intent look on his face and the clear heartbreak on Cas’s, so she steps back out into the hall. This is between brothers. “Watch over them, Cas, please. Promise me?”  
  
Cas swallows hard, nods. His eyes are getting watery, a previously unheard of sight that happens with some frequency these days.  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“They love you,” Sam says. “They’re your family. You’re a Winchester.” He says it as fiercely as he can, because he means it. “Take care of them, but let them take care of you, too.”  
  
Cas closes his eyes tight for a second, and tears squeeze out and fall down his cheeks. Sam can feel the moisture starting to pool in his own eyes. _Damn._ He didn't want to cry.  
  
“Let Claire know she’ll never beat my Halo 3000 score,” he adds teasingly, just to lighten the mood. “Check up on her and Alex and Jody for me. Let Garth have my key to the bunker, ‘cause I know he’s wanted an original for years. Oh, and you get the weapon collection. Do whatever you want with it. Just don’t give any of it to the kids till they’re old enough.” He pauses. “Diana might be old enough, but don’t let her go too crazy.”  
  
Cas nods again. It’s time to get into the hard part.  
  
“You keep the Impala and my dad’s... Dean’s journal,” Sam says, ignoring the startled look Cas gives him. “You’re going to need them.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” Cas says. “Those are family heirlooms, practically. I don’t —”  
  
“You’re family. You’ve been my family for longer than anyone else,” Sam says, and a few tears escape at that. “And those belonged to Dean. He would want you to have them.” He pushes past the conflicted look on Cas’s face. “And like I said, you’re going to need them.”  
  
Sam has to take a break, pause to regain his breath. Speaking so much is no easy task these days. Cas sits next to him in silence, clearly confused, still twisting that button. He's going to pull it off if he doesn't stop, but Sam doesn't say anything about it. They could all use their small tokens of comfort right now.  
  
“Need them for what?” Cas asks finally, when Sam’s breathing evens out again.  
  
“Cas,” Sam says, “I want you to bring Dean back.”


	2. May 20, 2015 & July 2045

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s scorching hot in the cemetery, with the sun heating the black tar roads weaving between the graves and reflecting sharply off the shiny, gray tombstones, and Cas’s collar is starting to stick to his skin.

_May 20, 2015_

  


Dean Winchester is dead.  
  
Sam called, just moments ago, to tell Cas this. But he knew before then. He felt it. Felt the absence of Dean’s ever-present, muted prayers as they faded from the world. Cas didn’t need Sam to tell him that Dean is gone.  
  
Dead.  
  
It may not be the right word — Cas could barely listen to the explanation Sam could barely give, something about Death transferring Dean somewhere else, somewhere out of reach — but it feels right. Dean might not have been able to truly die, not with the Mark on his arm, but they’ll never see him again just the same.  
  
Cas will never see him again.  
  
That’s death, is it not?  
  
After Sam’s call he mutely left the warehouse with the Book of the Damned tucked under his arm, left Crowley and Rowena quibbling, shouting questions after him. “Don’t do the spell,” he said, because he knew in a very detached sort of way that was important. That’s all he told them.  
  
The spell is off, Dean is dead, Sam is far away, and Cas is done.  
  
He’s done, and it hits him hard, a meteor crash-landing into this life he’s built over the past seven years. He fell from Heaven for the sake of one man, and that man has been wiped from existence, and Cas has nothing left for himself here.  
  
There is no mission. No spell to complete. No Dean to save. No purpose in staying.  
  
Cas gets into his car and he drives.  
  
He should find Sam. Mourn their loss together. But he drives instead, one destination in mind, and Sam doesn’t call. Maybe their friendship was only ever built upon the third member of their trio, and without him, it won’t survive. Cas would mourn that loss, too, if he had any ounce of emotion left in him. He’s turned it off as best he can. He has somewhere to be.  
  
The portal is guarded, which doesn’t surprise him. The guard is Hannah, which does. Cas turns the ignition off in the Continental, watching her through the dirty windshield. She’s taken the vessel of the young Indian man again, but he can see her true face as well, flickering faintly in and out of focus, his muted grace struggling to register the wavelengths. Both faces look mournful. It can’t be a good sign.  
  
He exits the car and walks up to her slowly, scanning the playground and the tree line. He senses no one else.  
  
“I’m alone, Castiel,” Hannah says, and it’s a credit to how much human emotion she’s learned that her voice shakes slightly on her next words. “I came to tell you that you can’t come back.”  
  
Cas looks at her, so sad and so sure, and the dam he’s built over the past several hours breaks. He can feel the tears, stinging and strong, building up and tumbling over, and he can feel his heart, which he never notices, pounding in his chest. He can feel the blood under his fingernails where he’s clenched his fists too tightly, the mournful throbbing in his head. He feels everything.  
  
_Dean, Dean is dead, Dean is dead and I have nothing left._  
  
“Please, Hannah.” His voice is choked and he despises it, how weak he sounds and how weak he feels. “I want to go home. I _need_ to go home.”  
  
She looks at him with sadness and pity, shaking her head.  
  
“I can’t. I wish I could, but... It’s been decided. Your punishment for letting Metatron go. Banishment.”  
  
Cas lifts his head up to the sky, a sorry attempt to keep the tears in his eyes. He blinks at the blurred tableau of stars that he used to love seeing from this angle, and he just wants to be among them again.  
  
He wants to be an angel again, to not feel anything again.  
  
“We won’t take your grace,” she continues, not mentioning his obvious suffering. “Though over time it will likely lose most of its power due to its separation from the source. I’m sorry, but even getting the others to agree to this much was... difficult.”  
  
Cas hears the pause there. It was likely more than ‘difficult,’ and if he could feel anything other than loss and devastation he might be grateful to her.  
  
Hannah pauses for some time before speaking again.  
  
“You betrayed us, Castiel.” The words sound like they’re coming from a script, something Hannah was instructed to say. “You took our most dangerous prisoner without permission, all for the sake of saving a human.” She looks away. “And you failed to do even that.”  
  
Cas presses his hands over his eyes, tries to control the leaking, but he can’t stop it. Can’t stop the sobs that follow. This has never happened to him before, he has never broken like this before. Hannah is silent.  
  
“Please,” he gasps, once he regains his breath. “I don’t want this. Take this from me. Just end it.”  
  
“No,” she says, in barely a whisper. “I can’t, and I won’t. You are strong, Castiel. You will survive this. You could be happy here, eventually.”  
  
He shakes his head, fist pressed to his mouth. He oddly feels like he can’t breathe. He doesn’t even need to breathe in the first place, it shouldn’t matter now.  
  
“Castiel,” Hannah says, and she sounds like herself again, like the script is gone. She almost sounds like his friend. “I am sorry for your loss.” They both know she doesn’t mean Heaven. “So, so sorry.”  
  
Cas takes a few deep breaths to regain some of his composure and then looks Hannah directly in the eye. She’s blurred through his tears, but he can see the frown on her vessel’s face, the mournful lines between the brows. He can’t see her true face anymore.  
  
“No, you’re not,” he tells her, an echo of a life he lived long ago, when he was just like her — standing on the edge of emotion, never taking the fall headfirst into it. He remembers Anna, the anger in her eyes that he couldn’t comprehend. He understands it now. He understands it all now. “You don’t know the feeling.”  
  
Cas turns away from Hannah, away from Heaven, and walks back to his car. She doesn’t call after him, not that he expected her to. He gets in and drives away, forcing himself not to look back.  
  
He’s lost every home he’s ever had, all in one day.  
  
Cas only makes it a few blocks away from the portal before he pulls the Continental over to the side of the road and breaks down completely.

  


_July 2045_

  


It’s scorching hot in the cemetery, with the sun heating the black tar roads weaving between the graves and reflecting sharply off the shiny, gray tombstones, and Cas’s collar is starting to stick to his skin. He tugs at it, loosening his tie in the process. Diana looks over at him, her eyes red-rimmed and tired, and motions for him to take a step toward her. He does, and she tugs the tie back into place, pats his shoulders.  
  
“There,” she whispers, because they’ve been whispering all day. It feels strange to talk in a normal tone at a funeral. “Don’t pull on it.”  
  
They both turn back to face the crowd of gathered mourners. There are so many people here, waiting for the casket to be lowered into the ground, and Cas wonders what Sam would think of it. Would it uplift him to know how well-loved he was? Would it make him remember the facsimile of a funeral the two of them alone gave Dean, make his heart ache?  
  
Cas hates funerals.  
  
“I don’t know half of these people,” Diana mutters. She and Cas are standing at the far end of the receiving line, which hasn’t reached them yet. The first mourners have paused at the beginning, parking themselves in front of Ann Marie, who is holding up remarkably well. Jason, the middle Winchester child, stands next to his mother, kicking at loose clods of grass and avoiding looking at the coffin or anyone around him. Cassandra, the baby of the family, is on his other side, silently holding Diana’s hand as tears stream down her face. She’s not old enough yet to have mastered the art of reining in her emotions the Winchester way, and Cas hopes she never does.  
  
“People he met on the job and old hunters,” he whispers sideways to his niece, keeping his eyes ahead. “I see a few of his friends from the bar, too.”  
  
“Any sign of demons?” she asks where only he can hear, and if there’s any fear in her heart she keeps it out of her voice.  
  
Cas shakes his head.  
  
“No. Everyone is human, or as human as we expected them to be, as far as I can tell.”  
  
It's a slight concern, that a vengeful supernatural being might attack the funeral for the most famous hunter in the United States. But it’s been all quiet so far.  
  
Diana shifts uncomfortably in her heels, and Cas sympathizes. It’s a miserable day for a graveside service. Wearing black in hundred-degree heat, standing around in uncomfortable clothes waiting to have uncomfortable conversations with people who have no idea what this loss really means — he wants to go home. He can only imagine how the Winchesters feel.  
  
The line has finally reached them. A few older people from the church are in front, and Diana and Cas graciously accept their condolences. They probably jumped ahead to get out of this heat sooner, not that Cas blames them.  
  
Then the more familiar faces move through, and Cas can see Diana opening up. She cries briefly into her grandfather’s shoulder, hugs her school friends tightly. Garth scoops Diana into his arms without ceremony and she even laughs. He moves to Cas and lightly grabs his shoulder. The friendly gesture makes tears well up in his eyes.  
  
“Hey man,” Garth says, face open and kind. “Anytime you need a drink, you let me know.”  
  
Cas nods stiffly, but Garth isn’t offended. He pats Cas’s shoulder, then moves away.  
  
“Cas Winchester,” a familiar voice calls from the crowd behind Garth and his family. “How are you holding up?”  
  
Claire. She’s hugging Diana, but lets go to step directly into his arms, and he holds her more tightly than maybe he should.  
  
She leans back to look him in the face, and Cas can see she’s been crying, too. Claire looks older than even him now — she’s in her late 40s, and his body remains, as ever, in his mid-30s — but she’s every bit as beautiful as she was when she was young.  
  
“I mean it, Cas,” she says, eyes roving over him like she’s checking for visible injuries, not emotional ones. “How are you?”  
  
“I’m all right,” he half-lies — he constantly drifts between his usual placid nature and the floodgates of grief. “For right now. At this particular moment,” he amends when she stares at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief.  
  
“Okay, well I’m bringing Alex and the kid over tonight,” Claire says, and when he opens his mouth to argue that it’s unnecessary she cuts him off. “We don’t have to stay long, but we need to talk. And it might be good for Jason to have Jake around. He could use a friend who understands what his dad’s life was really like. A few of the other hunters would like to come, too. Talk about the real Sam. Ann Marie agreed to it.”  
  
Cas elects to nod rather than waste time fighting her. She’s right, it could be a good thing. It’s frustrating to look at all these people, many of whom have only known Sam for 10 years at the most, and to not scream, “He saved the world! He took the devil back to hell! You know nothing!” Of course, none of them who do know the truth can say anything, not here.  
  
Claire stands on her tiptoes and pecks his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into her a little, enough so she wraps her arms tightly around him again.  
  
“Love you,” she whispers in his ear before pulling away.  
  
“Love you, too,” he says easily. Claire taught him to always say it back, years ago. She smiles at him, and Cas smiles, too.  
  
She walks away, probably to get back to her wife and kids, and the line moves on. Cas exchanges quiet words with those he knows, smiles stiffly and accepts the condolences of those he doesn’t, answering their questions (“Now, are you the brother?” “Yes, the unofficial one.” “Oh man, you were in that book series about Sam, right?” “Uh, yes.” “You’re the angel!” “Yeah, that character was based on me.” Etcetera). Occasionally he places a reassuring hand on Diana’s back, and at some point Cassandra migrates to stand between them, still holding Diana’s hand but now also leaning against Cas’s side.  
  
“Tired, Sandy?” Cas asks the 12-year-old, and she just nods into his pant leg. All that’s visible from above is her blonde hair, matted down with sweat. Normally she’s incredibly energetic and precocious, but Sandy’s turned quietly inward since Sam’s death. She and Jason both refuse to openly talk about it, while Diana seems determined to hold herself together in public only to fall apart every time she thinks she’s alone. Cas worries about them all.  
  
The sun is directly overhead when the coffin is finally lowered, and Cas tries to concentrate on the sweat pooling down his back to keep his mind off the fact that his best friend is about to be swallowed by the earth, that Sam’s family has lost a husband and a father. They all cry, if quietly. Even Winchesters break eventually.  
  
After the service, the crowd disperses silently toward their cars. Cas is riding with the Winchesters, and he’s following Ann Marie and the kids away from Sam’s grave, from the temporary marker that reads “Samuel Winchester, 1983-2045,” when a woman he doesn’t recognize hurries over to him.  
  
“Are you Castiel?” she asks. He stops and looks at her. She’s probably in her early 70s, with brunette hair that’s graying along the roots. Tall and slight, she’s strikingly attractive, but he can’t place her at all.  
  
“Do I know you?” he asks, just to be sure.  
  
She shakes her head. Ann Marie stops walking to the car and looks back at them, but Cas waves her on.  
  
“I’m Andrea Barr,” she says, holding out a hand for him to shake. “I... Sam and Dean Winchester saved my son’s life. And mine. A very long time ago.” She motions back toward a lean, 50-something man waiting on the edge of the departing crowd. He walks slowly toward them.  
  
“This is my son, Lucas,” Andrea says, and Lucas inclines his head toward Cas in a nod. In a soft voice he says, “We don’t mean to intrude, but...”  
  
“No,” Cas says quickly, “it’s more than all right. How did you hear about Sam’s death?”  
  
It’s surprisingly easy to say it like that. _Sam’s death._ Cas supposes it hasn’t sunk in yet.  
  
“I’m a hunter,” Lucas responds. “Part-time. We live around here now, heard about it through the grapevine. I’d hoped to run into the brothers for a while, but it’s hard to tell fact from fiction when it comes to the stories the hunting community tells about the Winchesters. The _Supernatural_ series blowing up didn’t really help with that.”  
  
Cas huffs a laugh.  
  
“I can tell you most of the stories are true.” He shakes his head at the thought of Chuck, cowering in his dilapidated home and writing down every word of the Winchesters' inner thoughts. “And the books are unfortunately all too real.”  
  
“Well, you’re real,” Andrea says. “We weren’t quite expecting that.”  
  
Cas wonders about his place in the Winchester lore outside of Chuck’s series, but he doesn’t ask. The Barrs shuffle awkwardly, looking at each other with pointed glances. Cas tilts his head, questioning.  
  
“Is Dean...” Lucas starts to ask, but trails off.  
  
“He’s dead,” Cas says by rote. That loss has sunk in, and yet the sting seems to have somehow grown worse following Sam's death. “He died more than thirty years ago.”  
  
The Barrs look at him for a second, then back at each other. They clearly don’t know how to respond. Cas wants to say something to end the silence, but no words come to mind. There aren't enough words in the English language to adequately describe the impact of Sam and Dean Winchester.  
  
After a few moments of awkward silence, Lucas says, “He’s the one who saved me. Dean. He kept me from drowning when a poltergeist pulled me into a lake. I always wanted to say thank you, you know, as an adult. For everything.”  
  
Andrea nods her affirmation. She looks like she wants to cry.  
  
“Dean was a good man,” Cas says with quiet conviction. He looks at Lucas. “So was Sam. The best men I’ve ever known.”  
  
“Yeah,” Lucas says. “I can believe that.”


	3. May 2015 & July 2045

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I found a liquor store,” Sam says, dizzy and near giddy with relief that Cas is here and he’s still alive and physically well.
> 
> Cas blinks at him. “And you drank it?”

_May 2015_

It takes Sam a week to force himself to go back to the bunker. 

After Death snapped his fingers and vanished with his brother, gone forever, leaving Sam alone to fall apart in some shitty Mexican restaurant, he hadn’t felt like going back to Kansas.

He can’t picture the bunker as home, not without Dean there.

So he drove to the west coast, to Jessica’s grave in Palo Alto, for the first time in over ten years. He wept for her, the love of his life, and for Dean, the brother who raised him, before hitting every old bar he could remember from his brief glory days at Stanford. It was a binge to rival every binge Sam had ever watched his brother partake in.

It’s at the end of that week, soaked in alcohol and wrapped in the obsessive idea that this is all his fault, his failure to save Dean, that Sam realizes something profoundly important — he still has Cas.

He realizes this when he wakes up in his motel room with a terrible hangover and sees a message on his phone, the first one he’s received since the day Death took Dean.

It’s from Claire Novak.

“Hey Sam, this is Claire,” it reads. “I was wondering if you know what’s up with Cas? He usually texts me like at least one emoji a day, but he hasn’t in a while. He’s not responding to my texts, either. And Dean’s not answering.”

_Dean’s not answering._

Sam runs to the bathroom to throw up the bottle of vodka he’d chased with shots of tequila the night before. When he goes back to the room, he’s relieved to note it’s empty. There had been a woman he only vaguely recalls at the bar last night, leaning into his space, breasts proudly on display, but at least she was smart enough to not follow him here and try to sleep with him.

He doesn’t respond to Claire because he doesn’t know what to say. His head is throbbing and he can’t explain to this 18-year-old that he can’t handle his grief or his liquor, and he can’t say those words again. _Dean is dead._

But Sam does call Cas.

The phone rings and rings.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of — Uh, this is Castiel? (Snorting laughter in the background. _Dean._ ) — Please leave a message after the tone.”

Dean had tried for what felt like hours to get Cas to just leave his name like a normal person. It didn’t work. Cas just couldn’t seem to fathom why anyone would be calling him who didn’t already know his name — “Dean, I fail to see how this is necessary when you and Sam already know who I am.” Dean just laughed and threw his arm around Cas, saying “You know what, buddy? It fits you better like that anyway.” Sam tries not to cry at that memory alone. 

He hangs up, ashamed that this is the first time he’s called his friend since letting Cas know Dean’s gone. It had to have hit Cas hard, and he’s probably alone at the bunker, unsure where he belongs now.

_Take care of him. You gotta take care of Cas for me._ It was practically Dean’s dying wish, a desperate plea as Death waited impatiently behind him, the closest his brother ever came to admitting how much Cas meant to him. And Sam blew it off immediately in favor of indulging in all of his own shitty coping mechanisms.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, staring at the phone and debating whether to try calling again before his stomach decides for him, and he has to run to the toilet for another round of vicious puking. 

Sam waits an hour for his hangover to reside enough that he can pick himself up off the floor. Then he starts the drive to Kansas.

It’s long and it’s lonely, and it somehow feels even worse this time around. When he drove out to California all he could think about was how much he needed to see Jess’s grave, to talk to her about this. He plotted what he would say, like she was actually going to hear. Then, once he got there and purged his grief over Dean, over his entire, broken life, he'd left, feeling empty and guilty. Jess didn’t need to hear any of that. He’d brought enough pain into her life without it spilling over into her death.

That’s when the drinking, and maybe some illicit substance consumption, started.

Now his head is pounding, demanding more drugs and alcohol, and Sam can’t remember the last time he hurt like this. When he was going through demon blood withdrawals, probably. 

And since he’s not preoccupied daydreaming about imaginary conversations with his long-lost love, all he can feel is the emptiness left behind in his gut from what Dean said to Death.

“I can’t kill Sammy, but you can tie his life to mine. Make it the lock to wherever you’re sending me. And throw away the key.” He’d gestured at himself. “You think as long as he’s kicking he’ll try to save me? Make it impossible for me to come back while he’s alive. I know you can.” 

Sam knew it was over then, but from his spot on the floor, where he’d been waiting to die at Dean’s hand, he couldn’t manage to say anything, all his words, all rational thought, sucked out. He'd prepared himself to die for Dean, for the world. He was not ready to live without his brother. The mere thought left him hollow inside.

Death coldly considered Dean, looked him up and down like some rare specimen trapped under a piece of glass, pinned in place and finally primed for his collection. He’d waited for the Winchesters longer than most.

“I can,” Death said. “But why should I? Sam should be dead several times over by now. It’s more practical to rid the world of you both in one fell swoop.”

He didn’t say it unkindly, not really. Just like it was an acknowledged truth — the Winchester brothers should be dead, and they weren’t. It was his job to fix that.

“I ain’t killing my brother,” Dean said shakily, and Sam both loved and loathed him for making that decision. “And our friends are just waiting to do the spell to unleash the Darkness. We both know you’re not gonna let that happen. It violates the order of the universe. And you love order.”

Death smiled then, a dark smile that chilled Sam to the core. Even Dean took a step back from the horseman, Death’s sickle still clutched in his fist.

“Well,” Death said, “that I do.”

Sam doesn’t want to think about the rest. How terrified Dean looked as he choked out his goodbyes (“Take care of yourself, please. Go have a real life for me, Sammy. Find a girl or something, go back to school. Live for you. And tell Cas I’m sorry. Jesus, I’m so sorry. Take care of him. You gotta take care of Cas for me. Take care of each other, and take care of my baby”). How Sam begged Dean to just let them do the spell. How Death watched it all, an unreadable, blank look on his face. 

It burned when Death touched him, right over his heart, and Sam can still feel it, the fire that moved from his chest, spreading throughout his body, torching his veins and boiling his blood. The lock, Death explained, as Dean watched with a pained look on his face. The lock on Dean’s cage would be Sam. As long as he lived, nothing could save Dean from where Death would send him.

Sam clenches the wheel till his knuckles turn white. He can see Dean, his eyes wide and wet as Death reached for him.

“Sammy, I’m so sorry —”

Then they were gone. 

They’ll never see each other again. Dean will never wake Sam up by singing AC/DC off-key at full volume. Sam will never hear Dean complain about his protein shakes taking up the beer space in the cooler. Dean will never throw his arm around him after a hunt well done and crow out, “We are the champions, my friend!” in his terrible vibrato. 

That’s all over now. It’s all over, and in place of Dean’s bravado and caretaking and wisecracking Sam has... nothing. He’d always judged Dean so harshly for winding his life with Sam’s so tightly that he couldn’t exist without him. Now Sam realizes he’s done the exact same thing. Dean is his touchstone, and Dean is gone.

The drive is a hell, but entering the bunker is a torture of its own. Dean loved this place. He decorated his room, he flopped down in the library chairs like he belonged there, he cooked homemade meals in the kitchen.

Sam never loved the bunker, and he hates it now. He hates Dean’s empty room, the dark kitchen, the bloodstains and piles of books on the floor of the library that remind him of what his brother turned into before he died or... whatever Death did that Dean can’t come back from.

“Cas!” Sam yells through the unlit halls, trying to focus on the one good thing he might still have left, his last real friend. “Cas!”

_Please be here,_ he thinks. _I need you to be here. I can’t handle this alone anymore._

Sam must make four laps around the bunker, feeling desolate and abandoned, when he hears it. A snuffling sound coming from Dean’s half-open door. He doesn’t want to look in there, but he has a good idea what he’ll find if he does.

He pushes the door open, letting the light from the hallway shine through. Sure enough, there’s Cas. He’s wearing his full outfit — trench coat, suit and tie, dress shoes — but he’s curled on Dean’s bed, facing the wall.

“Cas!” Sam rushes to him, shakes his shoulder. Cas rolls over, and Sam is surprised to see his eyes and nose are red, though he’s not crying now. Sam’s never seen Cas cry, not in the seven years they've known each other.

“Sam?” Cas asks, like he can’t believe Sam’s here. How he could have missed his name being screamed down the halls Sam doesn’t know. “Where did you —”

“I found a liquor store,” Sam says, dizzy and near giddy with relief that Cas is here and he’s still alive and physically well.

Cas blinks at him. “And you drank it?”

Sam laughs slightly hysterically, and before he can really think about it, he throws both arms around Cas, pulling him in for a tight hug. Cas makes a shocked noise, a brief huff of surprise, then hugs back. They sit like that for longer than Sam would normally be comfortable with, but Dean is dead and Cas is the only person alive who might understand the ache that’s left in his place.

 

_July 2045_

“And then,” Ann Marie announces, the center of attention and the center of the room, swaying slightly in the heels she still hasn’t removed, “Cas just asks Sam, in front of the entire PTO group in Lincoln, Nebraska, ‘Why can’t we just explain to the children how contraception works?’ Like it’s no big thing. Bear in mind, please, that these people already gossiped about how we must be polyamorous, which in their minds was _so_ terrible, or how Cas must be like, Sam’s gay lover or my side fling, because they just could not fathom why a good friend would want to help a couple raise their children.” 

Cas laughs faintly at the memory, thinking of Sam muttering to Ann Marie after a particularly contentious meeting, “Maybe you should start staying home, and I’ll tell them Cas and I are running away together. Come on, let’s just see what happens!”

“So they already hated us for shit they made up in their own damn heads,” Ann Marie continues. “And then Sam says very loudly, like the lovely asshole he is, ‘We probably should teach them about contraception, ‘cause abstinence didn’t work for Mary.’ And that’s how we all got kicked out of the PTO at Diana’s first Catholic school." She pauses to take a gulp of wine. "They kicked a _literal angel_ out of their stupid PTO!”

Everyone laughs except Diana, who leans over to Cas and whispers, “She’s wasted. We have to cut her off.”

Cas agrees to a degree, but Ann Marie is in good spirits, exchanging Sam stories with the assembled group of old hunting friends, the ones that really knew Sam, who showed up after the funeral bearing casseroles and carrying knives. He wants her to be happy, and he doesn’t mind if she needs to drink a bit to feel that way right now. They’re all a little tipsy, including Cas. He’s surprised Diana hasn’t tried to sneak any drinks by them — she’s still 20, and her mother doesn’t like it when she openly flouts her lawbreaking — but the eldest Winchester child remains completely sober.

The Barrs are here, too. Cas invited them, and they’ve already shared the story of how Sam and Dean saved Lucas’s life. That made everyone cry, so Ann Marie made a new rule — only funny tales. They all need the levity.

Garth told the crowd about a case he worked with the Winchesters where they all got wasted to hunt down a Japanese monster that was only visible if you were drunk. Joe, a hunter friend of Cas and Sam’s, talked about the time Sam got caught salting and burning a cat’s body to kill its ghost on particularly weird case and told the police he was just a huge fan of Stephen King’s “Pet Sematary.” Krissy shared the story of the time Sam tried to teach her how to shoot a grenade launcher, only to be knocked back on his ass by the kickback.

Jason and Claire’s son Jake are upstairs, probably playing video games. Cas has noticed that’s how Jason distracts himself these days. It's well past midnight now, and Sandy fell asleep hours ago. Diana is the only Winchester child who insisted on staying up with the other adults. She’s been quietly listening to the tales of her dad, rubbing her hands anxiously between her legs. Cas bumps her shoulder with his own, and she gives him a brief, pained smile.

Claire stands from the couch to tell a story about Sam teaching her, then an 18-year-old, how to scam credit cards for her birthday. When she mentions that Dean gave her a gun that same day, Cas’s stomach drops a bit. Most of these stories are about Sam, but for the older crowd Sam is inextricably tied to Dean.

It’s exhausting to be constantly reminded he’s lost not one but two of the people he’s loved most in his multi-millennia existence, all within the space of a few short decades. 

“Ams,” calls out Alex, who leans into Claire once she sits back down. “Tell us how you and Sam met.”

“Aw,” Ann Marie says, waving her hand loosely. “That’s not funny.”

The crowd protests and she gives in, standing up from her perch on the fireplace to again take the center of the room.

She begins the story Cas knows by heart because he was there — Ann Marie actually met Dean first (and slept with him, though she always leaves that part out in front of her kids), when he was a demon. Sam, following his brother’s trail, talked at length with the pretty blonde waitress who’d recently seen the elder Winchester. He gave her his number in case Dean came back, and they both forgot about it. Nearly two years later Ann Marie found Sam’s fake FBI business card in the bottom of her purse. She called just to see if Sam ever found his mark, and then she mentioned off-handedly that the bar she worked at was experiencing some strange phenomena at night. Cas and Sam arrived to investigate, and the rest is history.

The hunters react appropriately at the right times, with ‘awws’ and ‘ohhs,’ and even Diana, who slightly mouths parts of the tale along with her mother, laughs when Ann Marie talks about how awkwardly Sam approached her when the case was over. 

“He clearly wanted a date, but he wasn’t able to get the question out,” she says, shrugging and nearly upending the wine glass in her hand. “I let him stumble through it until I basically gave up. I thought, ‘If he can’t just ask me out, then forget him.’ It’s really thanks to Cas that we even got together at all. He practically forced Sam on me.”

The next few parts are clearly edited for Diana’s benefit, but Cas remembers what happened well enough. His thoughts are beginning to drift, trying to find a suitable story he can tell, when Claire catches his eye from across the room. She jerks her head slightly toward the kitchen, and Cas sighs. He’s being summoned, something Claire never needs a spell for when it comes to Cas.

He follows her out of the room, ignoring Diana’s curious gaze. Cas knows what Claire wants to talk about, and it’s not a subject he’s ready to discuss with anyone else just yet.

In the kitchen, a ‘70s-throwback like everything else in the Winchester home, Claire leans against the blue-laminated countertop, sipping on her beer. Cas takes up a spot next to her, eyeing the brown-striped wallpaper distastefully. He’s never managed to completely grasp human nostalgia for the trappings of bygone eras.

Nostalgia for lost loved ones? That’s different.

“So,” Claire begins. “What are you going to do?”

She doesn’t elaborate because she doesn’t have to. Cas knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“I don’t know.” It’s a lie, and they both know it. But Cas hasn’t admitted the truth aloud to anyone yet.

Claire, predictably, calls him out. 

“Bullshit.”

Cas sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He’s kept it the same for years, short and well-combed, letting it gray slightly at the edges to keep up the illusion that he’s aging for those who don’t know what he really is. Ann Marie and Diana tell him the gray looks distinguished; Claire tells him it looks weird. Sam would always laugh at it good-naturedly and say, “Come on, Cas! You never let yourself look older than me.”

Cas misses him so much, and it’s only been five days. He wishes Sam were here, that this was something they could do together.

“I’m going to do it,” he says. “Of course I’m going to do it. I can’t leave him there.”

“It’s not your responsibility anymore, Castiel,” Claire says quietly.

“It’s _Dean._ ”

Claire is silent for a minute, rubbing at the label on her beer before setting it on the counter, choosing what words to use.

“I think,” she says finally, “that you have to consider yourself in this scenario, too.”

“I have.”

“Have you?” she asks. “Because I was there, Cas. After he died. Then again after the djinn incident. And I know what Dean did to you. I know Sam meant well when he asked. I know he thought this would make things better. But I don’t want you to get hurt. Again.”

Cas looks at her and he sees the fierce love in her eyes. It’s a miracle, that love. He doesn’t deserve it, even though he worked so hard for so long to earn it.

“Claire,” he says gently, and he takes her hands in his. She doesn’t flinch away from his touch like she used to. “I think you of all people should understand forgiveness for events beyond one’s control.”

“It’s not the same, Cas.” She looks away but allows him to keep holding her hands. “I mean, it took me years to really forgive you, and you didn’t even mean for my dad to die.”

“Dean was cursed. He didn’t take on the Mark with the intention to hurt me, like I didn’t take your father from you with the intention to hurt him. Or you.”

Claire sighs in frustration, moving her hands out of his and placing them on her hips. It’s her battle stance.

“I just... You have to understand, that’s all I know of him, Cas. Dean Winchester shows up and my father goes off to be an angelic vessel, again. Dean Winchester shows up, and he’s got an evil tattoo on his arm that makes him kill people. Dean Winchester shows up and my mother still dies, even when he said he’d help me save her. I ask him to look out for you and —” Her voice cracks. “And when did it happen, Cas? When did he try to kill you? Like a week later?”

Cas doesn’t respond to that, because he can’t. He has no words to combat her accusations. They all ring true. He does say, “He was a good man, Claire. He saved the world.”

She laughs bitterly, rolling her eyes.

“He said the same thing about you, once. When he was trying to convince me that my dad did the right thing by saying yes, that you weren’t the bad guy.”

Cas never knew Dean said that. It takes him aback. Claire watches his face carefully.

“He sucked at feelings, huh? No surprise there.” She crosses her arms over her chest, looking down at the floor. “Cas, I know how much you loved him. Love him. You don’t have to say it, it’s obvious. I know. I’ve been possessed by you, for Christ’s sake.” Cas flinches at that, though Claire doesn’t say it with any bite. “And I know you’re hurting right now because of Sam. I mean, you just lost your best friend. It makes sense you want to get back someone else you loved in exchange. I tried to do that when I went after my mom. But you can’t just rush into this. People don’t just come back from the dead, no problems, no setbacks.”

“Dean’s not dead.”

“He might as well be. And you don’t know what he’ll be like, if this even works. He’ll still have the Mark. He might come back a demon. And then what? He won’t give a damn about you. He won’t care about Sam’s kids. He won’t care that Sam _died._ Do you want a Dean like that?”

It’s not like Cas hasn’t considered all this. It doesn’t change anything. It’s still Dean. Dean deserves to live, Cas is sure of it. He deserves to have the life that was never an option for him, the kind of life Sam and Cas have led without him.

“We have a plan in place for that.”

“We?”

Cas shifts uncomfortably.

“Well, it’s Sam’s plan. He wrote it all in the journal.”

Claire is unimpressed.

“So you haven’t told Ams yet, then?”

“She knows Sam asked me to do it.”

“But he didn’t specify what it would entail to her.”

“Not exactly.”

Claire lifts her hands from her hips and puts them on his shoulders, forcing Cas to look at her in those blue, blue eyes they share.

“It’s your grace, Cas. That’s so much to give up for something that might not even work.”

He shakes his head.

“It’s not all of it, not right away. It’s not much use to me now. I can’t.... I can’t even heal with it. I couldn’t even heal Sam with it,” Cas chokes out, and Claire tightens her grip. “And I... I planned to give it up anyway.” He hasn’t told anyone else this yet except Sam, and Sam is gone. “Once Sam passed. To finally, truly grow old. I can watch over the kids as they age, but I won’t be forced to... to watch everyone else I love die around me.”

This is something Claire clearly hasn’t considered. He can see her surprise as she reevaluates his mission.

“You want to be human?” she asks cautiously, which is fair. It’s been a sore subject in the past.

But the answer is simple now.

“Yes. Yes, I want to be human. I want to grow old. And I want Dean to grow old, too. With or without me around. If he rejects this life with us I can take it. I’ve lost him before. What I can’t take is letting him suffer eternity alone when I have even the slightest chance to save him.”

Claire laughs, shaking her head. “So damn stubborn.”

She steps forward to hug him then, a motion that always moves Cas. He slowly puts his arms around her.

“Then I’m with you,” she whispers into his shoulder. “Whenever you’re ready to do it, I’ll back you up.”

He runs his fingers through her hair like he always saw Sam do to Diana and Jason and Sandy, and he thinks, not for the first time, that he’s blessed to have Jimmy Novak’s child in his life. 

“Thank you,” he whispers back. “Thank you.”


	4. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean knows he’s already going mad.

_Unknown_

The thing about the Darkness is that it’s actually, literally darkness.

Or nothingness. Either way, Dean is trapped with it.

It surrounds him, consumes him without actually swallowing him. Unless it’s already swallowed him whole. Dean doesn’t know, can’t tell. The blackness around him is so thick he can’t see his own hands in front of his face. Dean would believe he’s gone blind if he didn’t know exactly what he’s been locked away with.

It’s poetic, really. He gave up his life on Earth, his brother, his angel, to stop the Darkness from escaping. Now Dean will never escape the Darkness. It’s him and a shapeless, soundless primordial force, together forever. 

Dean knows he’s already going mad.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, wherever here he is. There is no time here, in the blackness that envelops him. There’s nothing but Dean and the Darkness, here to bide all of eternity.

He wishes Death had just killed him.

When he first got here — and Dean can’t remember if that was a long time ago, maybe decades or years, or just mere hours, minutes — he’d been disoriented. He couldn’t remember right away what had happened to him, the choice he’d made. All the choices he’d made that led to this.

Dean had only one thought, and that was escape.

He ran as far and as fast as his legs would carry him, never hitting a wall, never tumbling down a step. He forced his eyes open, wide as they could go, and never saw anything. No light, no shades of gray. He heard no sound except his own heavy footsteps, his own harsh breathing. He felt nothing but panic.

“Sam! Cas! Sammy! Castiel!”

He screamed for them for hours, an echo of his desperate cries in hell with an extra name added in. He screamed until his throat felt sore and his head ached, until he couldn’t even stand because his legs shook too much. And then he prayed, face down on the ground, prostrate before nothing but the one angel he had absolute faith in. _Please, Cas,_ he prayed. _Please Cas, I don’t know... I don’t know where I am, I need you, I need you._ All the while thinking, _Cas’ll hear me. If Sam can’t, Cas can. Cas will know. Cas will come for me._

_Cas will come for me._

Then Dean remembers what he did and that no one is coming. That he brought this upon himself. That he deserves to be here. And so Dean stops calling. He stops praying. 

But the Darkness has been listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter for this update 'cause it's super short.
> 
> Next update: Sam and Cas get in a fight in the past; in the present Cas and Ann Marie talk about losing the love of your life.


	5. September 2015 & August 2045

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Cas first met Sam, he could smell the demon blood radiating from every pore, seeping through Sam’s soul. The boy was damned, doomed, an abomination only made palatable by the sheer love his brother’s soul exuded for him. And Castiel, an angel, trained to shy away from such a creature, instead found himself curious. He wondered why Sam still seemed so kind, why Dean Winchester, Righteous Man, cared for his hell-bound brother so very much. Even though the other angels sneered at Sam, hating him immediately, Cas never did.
> 
> He hates Sam now.

_September 2015_

__“Road trip.” Sam forcefully slams the map down on the library table, upsetting Cas’s cup of coffee. Cas carefully pulls it close to his chest, glaring at Sam._ _

__“Road trip,” Sam repeats. “Come on, D— We did this when we were kids. You pick a spot on the map, and we’ll look for cases there. It was how we got Dad to take us to places we actually wanted to go to.”_ _

__Cas looks at Sam like he’s lost his mind. Sam sighs._ _

“I need to get out of here. _We_ need to get out of here.” 

__That’s how they end up in the Impala, driving fifteen miles per hour over the speed limit on their way to Pennsylvania and a potential rugaro case. Sam is driving, singing along to one of Dean’s Led Zeppelin tapes and strumming his fingers along the wheel, and Cas wonders, if Sam is supposed to be Dean in this scenario, does that make him Sam?_ _

__He guesses those assessments are fitting. They’re both currently struggling to be near each other but feeling too afraid and lonely to be apart. Sam acts overly optimistic about their relationship, ignoring Cas’s clear discomfort with his falsely upbeat attitude — which is a very Dean thing to do — and Cas is pretending, for the most part, like he isn’t a wrathful wreck. He’s also not telling the whole truth to Sam, that he actually tried to leave the younger Winchester alone so he could go back to Heaven. And that’s so like Sam, to keep his anger on lock until it bursts forth and burns everything down, to try to run away from the suffocating arms of those who care about him. It works perfectly as analogy, actually._ _

__It’s more difficult to live._ _

__Cas isn’t sure why this is so difficult, he and Sam slumping forward without Dean to hold them all together, to hold them up. The two of them grew closer than ever after Dean took the Mark. The talked and they plotted, and Cas ran the errands (find Cain, hide the First Blade, gather spell ingredients) while Sam watched over his brother (don’t let Dean kill people, don’t let Dean kill people). Not the most conducive atmosphere to forming a healthy friendship, maybe, but neither was the apocalypse. And Dean became Cas’s best, and sometimes only, friend thanks to that particular disaster. So Sam and Cas formed a bond of their own as they resigned to fight against the Mark (and Dean) together until the battle was won._ _

__But the battle was lost._ _

__And Cas is angry. He’s angry at Dean, for taking damnation upon himself yet again, for leaving Cas bloody and raw without so much as a “see ya, Cas.” He’s angry at Death, for convincing Dean not to let them go through with the spell that would have saved his life. He’s angry at the angels, for abandoning him to a life on Earth with feelings he doesn’t want. He’s angry at Sam, for alternatively ignoring him and suffocating him, for either acting like he’s unhinged without his brother or like he’s the one keeping Cas together. For not stopping Dean when he told Death to take him._ _

__Most of all, Cas is angry at himself for not saving Dean._ _

__So they drive on, playing their roles half-heartedly, and if Sam breaks and cries Cas says nothing, because Sam wants to pretend he’s fine, and when Cas says nothing, Sam pulls it together and sings Bob Seger songs brokenly under his breath._ _

__And neither of them ever speak of what they’ve lost._ _

__///_ _

__There was no rugaro case. Or, more accurately, there was, and another hunter got there first._ _

__It’s now September 20th, a date of monumental importance to Cas, and he can’t say anything about it to Sam. The younger Winchester sits on the other bed, field-stripping their unused guns viciously in the middle of the room they’re sharing in yet another run-down motel, clearly not in the mood to talk._ _

__Cas learned quickly that Sam likes to move to hide his grief. This is the first case they’ve taken together since Dean died, but in the past four months Sam cleaned the bunker top to bottom (ignoring his brother’s room), read at least 50 lore books, ran several hundred miles along Kansas back roads, and disappeared for multiple days at a time, only to return frazzled and edgy, never telling Cas where he’d been._ _

__Cas wallows in his grief. He sits alone on Dean’s bed. He curls up on the shower floor for hours, letting the water pound at his back. He watches the stars with a burning hatred for his old home lying unseen behind them. He doesn’t feel like doing anything, including comforting Sam, even though he knows he should. Even though he knows Dean would expect him to._ _

__But Dean’s gone._ _

__Dean is gone, and Cas can’t stand to not talk about this anymore._ _

__“It’s September 20th,” he says quietly, and Sam looks up from the rifle he’s cleaning on the other bed. Cas doesn’t speak often these days, because what he wants to discuss is everything Sam wants to avoid._ _

__“Yeah?” Sam says. “Does that mean something?”_ _

__“Two days after I pulled Dean out of hell, I took Jimmy Novak from his family so I could met your brother face-to-face for the first time that he would remember. It was in a barn. In Pontiac. Tonight, seven years ago.”_ _

__Cas briefly wonders how far it is from Pennsylvania to Pontiac, Illinois. If he still had his full grace he would be able to calculate the distance within less than a second, be able to fly there just as fast. As it is, he has no idea._ _

__Sam says nothing in response, looking at Cas with a worryingly blank face._ _

__“He stabbed me in the chest,” Cas says, and he shrugs. “Fitting, I suppose.”_ _

__“Cas.” Sam’s voice comes out strangled. “Why are you telling me this, man?”_ _

__And all the anger bubbles up, spilling over, finally._ _

__“Why am I telling you this, Sam?” Cas asks, tone biting. “Because I’m tired of pretending your brother doesn’t exist, of barely mentioning him, of you pretending you have everything under control. I’m tired. I’m tired of missing him. I’m tired of missing you, even when you’re right there. I’m tired of missing my family, who left me behind. I’m tired.”_ _

__“You’re not the only one —"_ _

“Then say something!” Cas snaps. “Talk about him to me, please. I can’t go off the last memory I have because I —” _Fists and blood and deep-seated pain that has yet to go away._ Sam can’t know about that. “Because he didn’t even tell me he was leaving! He only told you!” 

__“I’m his brother.” Sam sets the gun to the side, but Cas sees his trigger finger twitching in his lap. “Of course he told me.”_ _

__“Well, that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have told me!”_ _

__“Right, because you’re the perfect example of sharing plans. You sure told me that you tried to get Heaven to take you back.”_ _

__Cas’s biting retort stops short. Sam stares at him, challenge in his eyes. They’re not the same color as Dean’s, but the resemblance in expression is still uncanny, a distorted image reflecting Dean back at Cas just for a second. It throws Cas off just as much as what Sam said._ _

__“That’s not the same... How did you know about that?” Cas breathes heavily, although he’s done nothing but raise his voice. His body’s human reactions confuse him, infuriate him._ _

__“I heard you praying to Hannah.” Sam’s fingers twist into fists. “Begging her to reconsider. Begging them to take back the prodigal son. Begging, so you could just leave me here! You really don’t give a shit about me, do you? It’s always been all about Dean!”_ _

__Cas’s legs are twitching to stand, to walk over to the other bed, to grab Sam Winchester by the throat, to sneer in his face, “I have given up everything for you, boy,” but it wouldn’t be true. He didn’t fall for Sam._ _

__“You left me, too,” Cas spits out instead, digging his hands into the sheets on the bed to keep himself from lunging forward. “You drove off to California to get drunk for a week straight. You still leave, and I don’t know where you go! You think I don’t know that the only reason we’re friends is because we had Dean in common? You think I don’t know that you never would have tried to find me if you didn’t think it was what Dean would want you to do?”_ _

__“I came back because you’re all I have left!” Sam stands, but he doesn’t move any further. “Dean’s dead, Cas! Dean is dead, and I’ve tried, I’ve tried to find a way around it. I’ve pulled out every summoning spell I know, asked every demon, asked fucking Rowena and Crowley, prayed to the angels... You want to know where I’ve been? Crossroads, crossroads where no demon will even talk to me! I’ve been trying to get Dean back, for him, for both of us, and all you do is lie around wishing Heaven would let you in!” Cas shrinks back slightly at the venom in Sam’s words. “Your family hates you, Cas! They don’t want you! I’m all you’ve got; I’m the only family you have! And you think you can just be pissed at me forever because what, because Dean cared more about me, his own brother, than you, some guy who’s been following him around aimlessly for years?”_ _

__When Cas first met Sam, he could smell the demon blood radiating from every pore, seeping through Sam’s soul. The boy was damned, doomed, an abomination only made palatable by the sheer love his brother’s soul exuded for him. And Castiel, an angel, trained to shy away from such a creature, instead found himself curious. He wondered why Sam still seemed so kind, why Dean Winchester, Righteous Man, cared for his hell-bound brother so very much. Even though the other angels sneered at Sam, hating him immediately, Cas never did._ _

__He hates Sam now._ _

Cas stands, considers getting in Sam’s face or even punching him, but then he watches Sam flinch and thinks, _no, Dean would hate you if you hurt him._ Not that what Dean would think should matter anymore, but it always does, always will. Cas walks instead to the table sitting at the edge of their beds, grabs the Impala keys, ignoring Sam’s protests, and walks out. 

He drives away, trying not to think about the fact that this is the first time he’s been behind the wheel of this car, Dean’s car. He thinks, _let him find his own way home._

__

__Sam is wrong. They don’t have each other. They’re both alone._ _

__

_August 2045_

__Cas hears her before he sees her._ _

__The faint beeping as his house alarm is disabled, the soft footsteps down the short hallway, the snick as his bedroom door slides all the way open. He has an angel blade under his pillow, a gun in his bedside drawer. He reaches for neither._ _

__Then he feels her, settling on the other side of the bed, her side just barely touching his back. He rolls toward her._ _

__“Ams?”_ _

__He hears only sniffling in return, but the moonlight from his bedroom window catches on her silvery blonde hair. Diana would have been his second guess, but though built slim like her mother, Diana’s hair is the same brown as Sam’s. She’s also much taller than Ann Marie, having inherited her father’s massive height._ _

__Only Winchester women would sneak into Cas’s room at night crying._ _

__“Sorry,” Ann Marie says finally, after a long silence. Cas’s eyes have adjusted to the dark somewhat, and he can see her watery eyes, the rain collected on the top of her head. Cas and Sam always meant to finish the covered walkway connecting their homes through their shared backyard, to keep a safe passage away from the worst of the elements. But then Sam got sick, and the project was abandoned._ _

__“You’re fine.” Cas reaches toward the lamp on the bedside table closest to him. “Do you want the light? Are we going to talk or sleep?”_ _

__She shrugs in the dark._ _

__“Both?”_ _

__Cas flips the light on. If it wasn’t already obvious, Ann Marie has clearly been crying for quite some time. Her blue eyes are red, her cheeks and nose ruddy, her face puffy. It makes Cas’s heart ache._ _

__He pulls her into his side, wraps an arm around her shoulders. She’s the sister he always wanted, the person who always showered him with affectionate hugs and friendly cheek kisses back when he still felt unsure reaching out to other people, alien in his own skin._ _

__Dean showed him love through action; Sam showed it through words. Ann Marie shows it through touch. Cas trys to reconcile these different forms, to figure out what the best way to love someone is. He’s not sure he’s found it yet._ _

__Ann Marie leans her head against Cas’s shoulder, getting his t-shirt wet from the rain in her hair and the tears in her eyes, and takes a sharp, shuddering breath._ _

__“I can’t sleep.”_ _

__“So I gathered.”_ _

__She laughs a little._ _

__“Jackass.” It’s affectionate. “Cas, I... I miss him so much.”_ _

__The last time Cas lost someone he loved, he handled it poorly. He’s determined to get this right, for Ann Marie, for Diana and Jason and Sandy. They need him to be the strong one this time around._ _

__“I miss him, too.” Cas lets himself slip, just a little, only a few tears. Not enough to shake Ann Marie away from his shoulder._ _

__“God, I’m a mess,” she says. “Every time I wake up I roll over and I think he’ll be there. And he’s not. Every time, for just a few seconds, I catch myself wanting to call out to him. Like maybe he just got up to go to the bathroom or get some water. Or maybe we’re back ten years ago and one of the kids is upset and he’s with them, reading to them until they fall asleep. But he’s not. He’s just... gone.”_ _

__Ann Marie makes a sniffling, snotty sound, before asking, “Hey, do you remember that night in the Keys? When Jason sleepwalked onto the beach?”_ _

__A little surprised at the non sequitur, Cas just nods. She must feel him move, because Ann Marie keeps talking._ _

__“I was terrified. I thought they’d finally come for us. The demons, the monsters. Anything. I thought we’d lost Jason. And you and Sam, you two kept it together so well. I know you must have been so scared, but you both just went into hunting mode, remember?”_ _

__“I remember.”_ _

__“Out there on the beach with knives and guns, and I was pacing in the kitchen with an angel blade, watching the girls’ room to make sure nothing would sneak past me to get them. I remember thinking, ‘I can’t wake them up. They need to sleep. This might be the last good sleep they ever get because they might lose their brother.’”_ _

__Ann Marie starts crying harder, and Cas holds her tighter._ _

__“I was so, so afraid he was gone. Gone, and I’d been sleeping right there in the next room. And I suggested that stupid vacation. I thought if we lost him it would be my fault. I’d never be able to live with it. But then you all came back. Sam was carrying Jason, still asleep. You were holding all the weapons. Both of you looked so tired, but you were happy. I broke down completely once he was safely in bed. Sam cried, too. I don’t know if he ever told you.”_ _

__“He didn’t. But, uh, I did as well. When I went back to my bedroom.”_ _

“Because you were afraid,” Ann Marie says. “Because we were all so afraid he’d been taken from us. Sam kept going back into Jason’s room every hour —“ Cas doesn’t say anything, but he’d done the same. “— and I stayed up the whole night, still holding that angel blade and trying to convince myself that everything really was okay. That we were safe." She pauses for a long time, and Cas senses she's not done speaking. 

"But even in spite of every monster I’d seen with you two on hunts," she says quietly, "that was the first night I ever felt truly afraid of death. That was the first night I thought it might touch my family. The thing is, we’re always prepared for the things in the night, aren’t we? All the wards and sigils and spell work and salt. If any of us had thought clearly, we would have realized nothing inhuman could have gotten into Jason’s room. But there’s danger everywhere else. It doesn’t have to be supernatural. He could've walked straight into the ocean and drowned. We might never have known. It wouldn’t have been demons. It would have been just — life.” 

__She twists one hand into his nightshirt and hiccups through a sob. Cas looks at the ceiling and reminds himself that now is not the time for him to lose himself to grief. He has to be here for Ann Marie._ _

__“It was just life. Just some shitty, should-have-been-curable disease. After all these years and all he’d been through. Hell. Literal Hell couldn’t kill Sam Winchester. And then he’s just... gone." She snaps her fingers. "Just like that. Over something we couldn’t protect him from. We were supposed to protect him, me and you, Cas, and we couldn’t. It never even gave us a chance. Cancer is a fucking coward.”_ _

Ann Marie laughs a little, warbled through tears, small but there. Cas laughs, too. That’s what Sam always called it. _Cancer. What a coward. It won’t even let me stab it._

__“If he could have stabbed it, he would have,” Cas says. “Sam would have stayed here with you and the kids. He loved you all so much.”  
“Can you tell me if it ever gets better?” Ann Marie asks. “Losing the love of your life?”_ _

__He tries to mask the way his body stiffens when she says that, but Ann Marie can tell. She rolls her head up slightly to look at him, eyes shining._ _

__“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have —”_ _

__“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong.” He sighs. She’s watching him silently, intently. “It’s not really the same for me, Ams. We were never... I’m not sure any comparison would help.”_ _

__“You loved Dean.” She says it so matter-of-factly._ _

__And it’s true. She knows more about Cas’s love for Dean than anyone, even Sam. She guessed it first, saw it hiding underneath Cas’s stoic façade far sooner than anyone else did._ _

__“It never stops hurting. It does hurt less, though. Most of the time. After a while.”_ _

__Ann Marie nods, like she expected that answer, then settles back down against his chest._ _

__There’s silence for so long Cas starts to think she’s gone to sleep._ _

__Then Ann Marie says, so softly he almost misses it, “When are you going to do it?”_ _

__Given what they were just discussing, it’s easy to divine what she meant._ _

__“I didn’t tell you —”_ _

__“I just know, Cas.” Ann Marie sighs, and the top of her head moves as she leans slightly away from him. “If I had a way to get Sam back, I would do it in a heartbeat. Damn the consequences.”_ _

__Cas reaches a hand up and strokes her hair. She leans into the friendly touch, lonely for it. Cas knows how that feels. He’s almost always slept alone, but it’s never made it any easier. He can’t imagine what it’s like for her, after nearly 30 years of sleeping next to Sam every night._ _

__“September. Sam thinks it would work best around the anniversary.”_ _

__Cas catches himself slipping, using present tense to refer to Sam. Of course, even 30 years later he still uses present tense sometimes when he’s thinking of Dean._ _

__“Do you think it will work?” Her voice is so soft Cas can’t read it. He wonders how she truly feels about this. When Cas first explained the plan in full, just a few days ago, Ann Marie remained still and silent, eventually saying, “You do what you think is best.”_ _

__She remembers Dean as a corrupted version himself, the man who beat down another man in front of her and essentially called her a whore. Cas can’t blame her for wondering whether bringing that man back is the right choice, even if the people she loves love Dean, the real Dean._ _

__“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “But I have to try.”_ _

__Ann Marie nods against him._ _

__“I know. I’m just asking... Cas, if it goes bad — if Dean is... bad — please don’t lead him to the kids.”_ _

__“You know I would never —”_ _

__“I know. I know you have to do this, I know you want to save him, I understand, I do. But I know you love them, too. They just lost their dad. They don’t need some long-lost uncle terrorizing them.”_ _

__Cas’s hand stops moving through her hair._ _

__“Ann Marie, if you think I shouldn’t do this, I won’t.”_ _

__He doesn’t want to hold back, but her children are his world now. Cas tries to imagine waiting until they’re older, until they could handle the shock that Dean Winchester’s resurrection will surely bring. It hurts to think about, but he would do it. He would wait if Ann Marie thought it best._ _

__But Cas knows Ann Marie won’t refuse him this. Won’t refuse Sam this._ _

__“No,” she says. “You should. It was practically Sam’s dying wish.”_ _

__She doesn’t say anything else, and eventually Cas can tell that Ann Marie has drifted off. His nearly non-existent grace requires him to sleep, too, but Cas finds himself lying awake, staring at his ceiling for hours, asking himself whether bringing Dean back is just a selfish, wish-fulfilling choice._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: In the past Sam and Cas talk about their friendship over Christmas gifts; in the present Cas summons Crowley for help with the spell to free Dean.
> 
> Dean dreams he's being rescued.


	6. December 2015 & September 2045

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He despises the smell of the smoke rising from the bowl in front of him. He despises the demon that materializes next to him even more.
> 
> “Feathers,” Crowley croons, rocking back on his heels and taking Cas in. “You’ve looked better.”

_December 2015_

Sam hates Christmas. He can think of approximately one good experience when it comes to this holiday, and that was the first Christmas he spent with Jess, when he finally told her, “I can’t go home.”

She listened as he explained that his dad had problems ("alcoholism," he called it), and that his brother would want to spend the holiday hitting up bars and searching for loose women. He told Jess Christmas had never been anything special to the Winchesters.

So Jess decided to stay at Stanford with him. She told her parents she would be home later in the break and then dragged Sam and his pathetic duffel bag full of worn clothes to her dorm, where they burnt cookies in the communal oven and decorated a tiny tree Jess bought from a guy selling them out of the back of his van. Jess gave Sam a sweater that was a size too small but it didn't matter because he couldn't remember the last time he had clothes that fit, and Sam kissed her, long and hard and deep. He knew right then he loved that girl.

Then they had sex for the first time. So yeah, best Christmas ever.

His dad never really celebrated it. More often than not John Winchester hit up the bars or shot at monsters on Christmas Eve. Dean tried to make it better, he did, but Sam always knew something was wrong. He knew other kids didn’t receive gifts their big brothers won from claw machines or stole from Wal-Mart shelves. Other kids didn’t wait up for Santa (who Sam knew didn’t exist) in old motel rooms. Other kids’ dads probably didn’t give them ammo for a present and say, “It’ll come in handy some day.” 

Christmas reminded Sam that his life was not normal. That he was not normal.

Most adult versions of the holiday he spent with Dean, drinking spiked eggnog and not mentioning that that particular tradition started the Christmas right before Dean died and went to hell.

Sam doesn’t even know where Dean is, now. Death made it clear he couldn’t die, so his soul must be out there somewhere. Just somewhere Sam can’t reach. Dean’s soul, alone and drifting. Sam tries not to think about that, either.

In an effort not to act like a total dick, he did find a gift for Cas. It’s not enough to make up for everything he said in that hotel room in Pennsylvania — Sam still flinches every time he thinks about what an asshole he was — but maybe it will show Cas that he cares. That Sam’s here for him, even if he hasn’t done a great job of it so far.

The gift wasn’t anything he had to buy. He found it in the bunker, in Dean’s closet. Sam saw it, and he knew immediately — this is for Cas.

Now if only he could find the courage to walk down the hall and give it to him. 

Sam sits on his bed in the bunker, one leg bouncing. He and Cas are adjusting to each other, albeit awkwardly. But to give this to Cas opens up the topic they normally leave unspoken — Dean.

He hears footsteps outside the door and nearly shoves the bundle in his arms under the covers, but before Sam decides what to do, Cas stands in the open doorway, looking sheepish and holding something small, wrapped in newspaper.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, eyes on the object in his friend’s hands. “What’s that?”

“Um.” Cas shifts restlessly. “A Christmas present. And an apology gift as well, I suppose.”

“You already apologized." Sam doesn’t want Cas to think he’s still upset about their fight in Pennsylvania. That was months ago. They both said and did things in their grief that they would never say or do under normal circumstances. Sam hates to think Cas still beats himself up about it.

“I know,” Cas says, and he crosses the room to sit awkwardly on the edge of Sam’s bed. “But I still feel guilty. I shouldn’t have driven off without you.”

“You came back,” Sam points out.

Cas sort of half-shrugs his shoulders.

“Nonetheless,” he says, and he hands the small package to Sam, “this is yours.”

Sam doesn’t open it right away, instead giving Cas the green jacket he'd balled up in his lap. “And this is yours. Merry Christmas.”

He watches Cas slowly unfold the jacket, recognition dawning on his face.

“Sam, I can’t — This was Dean’s, it’s... It’s not for me.”

Sam just smiles.

“Yeah, it is. He would want you to have it. If you’re gonna help me with cases you need more than one outfit. So, just consider this the starting point of your new wardrobe.”

Cas rubs his hand over the fabric with an odd, tight frown.

“Are you sure he would want you to give this to me?” he asks, so quietly Sam almost misses it.

Sam stares at Cas, noticing how pained his friend looks. He knows Dean’s death rocked Cas to the core, but Sam never actually talked to him about it. It’s like without Dean around, Sam can’t find it in himself to keep pushing the emotional conversations anymore. He needs to fix that. He wants to fix it.

“Cas, Dean loved you, okay? You’re his best friend. Of course he’d want you to have something of his.” Cas looks a bit doubtful, but he nods anyway, eyes watery. “I picked that because I think it’ll fit, but if it doesn’t, anything else you want from his room, you can have it. You’re family. You need something to remember him by, too.”

“Okay. Okay,” Cas repeats to himself, trying to gather his words. His hands twist in the jacket, and he brings it closer to his chest. “Thank you, Sam.”

Sam nods, smiling faintly.

“Yeah, man, absolutely. So, uh, can I open this now?”

“Of course.”

Sam has always been naturally patient at unwrapping gifts, willing to take his time to cleanly slide his nails under the tape, careful not to tear the paper too badly. For Dean, though, he put on a show, ripping off the wrapping as fast as he possible, because Sam learned from a young age that made Dean feel good. Like seeing Sam so excited he couldn’t wait to open his gifts was a gift right back to Dean. Sam feels like Cas might be the same way, so he ignores his base instincts and clears all of the newspaper away in one go.

The paper covers a small velvet pouch. Sam feels it, notes something hard inside of it. Something about the weight of the object seems familiar. He looks at Cas, who nervously upturns one end of his mouth in a very slight smile. Sam reaches into the pouch to pull out whatever is inside.

When he sees it, all the air leaves his chest.

The amulet. The same one he gave Dean when they were kids, the one Dean wore until he gave up on God and threw it away in some motel room, years ago. Sam remembers stopping by the trash can, debating whether to grab it, save it. He didn’t.

The bronze feels unnaturally cold in his hands, so much so that for a moment Sam wonders if Dean is a ghost, attached to this object that once meant so much to him.

“Sam?”

Cas’s quiet question startles Sam out of his funk, and he automatically clenches his hand around the amulet.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says. “I thought maybe you would want it back, but I was wrong...”

“No!” Sam says quickly, and Cas flinches slightly. “No, no, Cas, I... I can’t believe you found this. I don’t know what to say, it’s just... Yes, yes, I want it, of course I want it!”

Sam tugs Cas into an awkward hug to prevent him from seeing the tears building up in his eyes.

“I mean it, man. This is great. This is great.”

Sam's not sure how he actually feels about the amulet — on one hand, it’s a symbol of his beloved brother, who wore it constantly for the majority of their lives, a marker of how much the Winchesters loved and relied on one another. On the other hand, it’s also a symbol of another side of Dean — the Dean who threw it away at a low point in all of their lives, the Dean who later took on the Mark, the Dean who left Cas and Sam behind to pick up the pieces without him. But Sam doesn't say any of that to Cas.

He closes his eyes tightly until the tears seem back under control, then he lets go of Cas. When he leans back, Cas tilts his head, worried lines forming between his brow. Sam wonders when the angel aged, because he shouldn’t have, but Cas seems older than Jimmy Novak now.

“I love it, Cas.” And he does, though it hurts. Sam slips the worn leather cord over his neck. “It’ll keep him close.”

The following awkward silence extends longer than Sam can take.

“Really though, where did you get this?” he asks out of curiosity and to break the lull. “I thought it was gone forever.”

Cas shuffles uncomfortably.

“I, uh, I actually had Crowley perform a spell to track it down. Some time ago.”

“Really? Crowley? Why?”

Cas doesn’t look at Sam when he answers. 

“I thought maybe it would help Dean with the Mark, to have it back. But then I could never bring myself to give it to him. I thought he might just throw it away again, and I knew that would likely hurt you if you were to find out.”

There’s no way Sam can speak around the lump in his throat, so he nods jerkily. Cas isn’t really paying attention to him, though. He looks thoughtful as he gazes down at the jacket in his lap. 

“Funny how we both gave gifts that belonged to him.”

Sam laughs, but it's hollow.

“Yeah, uh... You know what, let’s aim for original stuff next Christmas, huh? This is great, but next year we should know each other better. Well enough to exchange presents that aren’t Dean-centered. I mean, if you’re planning to stay around that long?”

Sam doesn’t say that be cruel. He genuinely doesn’t want to assume. Surely Cas has other things he’d rather do than wallow in a pit of grief with Sam indefinitely. But Cas just says, “Of course I will.”

“Oh, well, great. Great. So next year it could be unique stuff like... Like we’re getting to know one another on our own merits, right?”

Cas smiles, just slightly. Sam tries his best to smile back, a little surprised to find that it comes easier than he thought.

“Yes,” Cas says, “I’d like that.”

 

_September 2045_

Most people in the town of Clarence, Nebraska, assume they know the Winchester family well.

Sam Winchester moved his wife, his children and his best friend (brother?) to Clarence ten years ago and immediately developed a name as the go-to man for all things security related. He could make any home impossible to break into, any safe secure against all attempts to crack it. Nearly every home and business in the town displays a “Winchester Security” sticker in the window or sign in the front yard. 

If you asked him how he did it — how he could possibly make things so _safe_ — Sam would laugh and say “Witchcraft.” No one took him seriously.

His death from cancer was very tragic, and many who’d met him through his business flocked to the funeral. They took a look at the beautiful Winchester family — the wife and three children Sam left behind — and clucked their tongues in pity. “Oh, how sad,” the people of Clarence said, “those poor babies left without a father. That poor woman left without her husband.”

They didn’t say much about Cas, but then they never knew what to think of him in the first place.

Cas Winchester is an enigma, as far as a town like Clarence, where everyone knows everyone’s business, can have one. He works from his home as a translator, and he supposedly speaks at least ten languages, but he’s awkward to talk to in person. No one is entirely sure what his relation to the rest of the family is — the most steady, ongoing rumor says that Cas must be Sam’s brother-in-law, because Sam always called him “his brother,” but the two shared no resemblance and were clearly not raised together. He’s almost always seen accompanied by one of the other Winchesters, but most often it was Sam walking around town with Cas. The two were very close. Cas seems sadder now than usual, the gossips report.

The Supernatural books reached cult status in Clarence a little late, but there’s no denying they made Sam and Cas reluctant local celebrities. Sometimes people in town jokingly call Cas “the angel.” They have no idea how right they are, and how wrong they are in thinking that the rest of the Winchesters are just a normal family.

Every Winchester knows basic spells and exorcisms, how to use a gun and wield an angel blade. Sam and Ann Marie Winchester met when Sam’s brother was a demon, and they fell in love over a haunting case. Cas Winchester's true identity is that of the angel Castiel, and though his powers are greatly diminished now, he still protects the family as its unofficial guardian and sixth member. The Winchester children were not raised to hunt like their father, but they do know of the existence of werewolves, vampires and wendigos. They could kill the monsters if they had to. Sam wanted to make sure it would never come to that.

But now Sam's gone, and Cas is currently summoning a demon in their shared backyard. He wonders how his friend would feel about that and frowns. He wonders what the neighbors would think and smiles.

No, the people of Clarence, Nebraska, know nothing about the Winchesters.

The kids are out of the house now. Cas dropped a quiet Sandy off at the middle school this morning, and Jason drove himself to the high school, where Cas pictures him sitting sullenly and silently through every class. Diana finally enrolled in courses at the town's community college, so that’s one Winchester doing something positive. Ann Marie is at the Winchester Security office, going through Sam’s client lists and occasionally calling Cas, overwhelmed. He’s going to head that way to help her as soon as this his business here is done.

He despises the smell of the smoke rising from the bowl in front of him. He despises the demon that materializes next to him even more.

“Feathers,” Crowley croons, rocking back on his heels and taking Cas in. “You’ve looked better.”

Cas rolls his eyes.

“Spare me, please. If we start insulting each other that’s all we’re going to get done.”

“Touché.” Crowley idles over to the table where Cas laid out the summoning ingredients. He picks up a pestle and twirls it lazily. “You could have just called, darling. Don’t pretend you’ve lost my number.”

“I try my best to forget you exist the majority of the time.”

Crowley tuts. “What’s that you said about insulting one another?”

“Where’s your mother?” 

“Oh, so now you’d like to disparage my mother.”

“No, I —” This is why Cas hates Crowley. He doesn’t have time for this useless and petty sniping. “Why would it matter? You can’t stand each other. Anyway, I need her assistance.”

The smile Crowley wears is almost feral, all teeth and no joy.

“Ah, so you’re finally going through with it.”

Cas looks at the ground, jaw twitching.

“As much as I’d like to see our beloved Squirrel come down from space, you know she won’t help you unless you give her something in return — something being the Book of the Damned. And I know that it’s gone the way of the First Blade, lost forever, because you, Castiel, are an unimaginative, sanctimonious do-gooder, even when abandoned by the rest of the holy high-rollers. Too afraid of power to take it even when it’s right under your nose. So, to put it indelicately, it appears you’re shit out of luck, angel.”

“You’re going to help me then,” Cas says confidently.

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Am I?”

“Well, your mother was my first choice, but unfortunately you’re right. She’ll never help me without the Book, and I don’t have it, so you’ll have to do. What a pity.” Cas sighs dramatically. “You’re really a third-rate witch when compared to Rowena.”

The flash of red in Crowley’s eyes signifies victory to Cas.

“Are you implying that I can’t do simple blood magic?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I’m not even implying it.”

Huffing, the demon marches over to Cas, getting right in his face. Cas’s mouth twitches, curling up at the corners. Against his better nature, he enjoys pissing off Crowley.

“I’m the King of Hell,” Crowley says. “I know power Mother would never dream of.”

“This is different,” Cas points out. “This isn’t Hell. We don’t even know where the Empty is. So if you can’t even find Rowena for me, then how do you plan to find Dean?”

Crowley’s eyes narrow.

“I can do it. What are the ingredients?”

Cas tries to keep his face carefully blank as he hands over John Winchester’s old journal, turned to the page where Sam wrote out the spell. Crowley mutters through the first half of the list, then pauses.

“Blade of the Head Reaper?”

Cas shifts uncomfortably.

“Sam took care of that.”

Crowley looks at him, somewhere between highly amused and faintly horrified.

“Death?”

Cas shakes his head. “We couldn’t —”

“Then Billie?”

“She’s not dead,” Cas says carefully, but he nods.

“Naturally.” Crowley laughs, clearly delighted. “You lot never do follow through, and I will enjoy seeing that bite you in the arse one day. She’ll eat you alive.”

Cas just rolls his eyes again, mutters, “Can you please finish reading?”

“A Hand of God?”

“You have one in your possession. The Rod of Aaron.” Crowley begins to protest, so Cas interrupts. “And don’t say you won’t use it on this, because there’s no reason for you to continue to hoard it.”

“We’ll see,” Crowley says, ever cryptic and non-committal. “Well, what about blood of lock and kin? What does that even mean?”

“Sam’s blood. He left a vial.”

Cas knows the second Crowley reaches the last item on the list. That predatory smile returns, but wider this time, stretching Crowley’s face unnaturally, hideously.

“Grace of an angel, soul-bonded to the victim.” 

His eyes turn red again, sliding over to Cas, and Cas hates that there’s a small part of him that wants to put his head down, take a step back.

“We’d all heard the rumors, of course. I often wondered myself, watching the two of you make eyes at each other. But Castiel —” Crowley shakes his head, still smiling. “A soul-bond? Surely Heaven frowned upon that.”

“It was unintentional, and I was disciplined.” Cas holds his head up stiffly. “It’s neither here nor there, not anymore.”

Crowley looks as though he has much more to say on the subject, though blessedly he shuts the journal and hands it back over to Cas.

“How much grace is required? You’re looking a little human these days.” 

Crowley practically spits out the word _human_ , as if it's filthy in his mouth, and Cas hates him all the more.

And that question, the question of humanity and grace, wears on Cas, who asked it of himself repeatedly in the months following Sam’s death. It’s a desperate balancing act, finding the right amount of grace to crack the Empty open only a sliver, only to pull Dean’s soul through, while leaving enough to cure Dean of the Mark once he’s on the other side. Cas doesn’t know the answer, so he doesn’t respond.

“Just as I suspected,” Crowley says. “You have no idea.”

“I’ve drawn out everything I could while still keeping enough to remain an angel.” Cas pulls at the cord around his neck, bringing up a vial filled with grace and Sam’s blood. Each spell requires both ingredients. “You’ll use half of this on the spell to open the Empty; half I’ll keep. I’ll need it to cure Dean of the Mark. And if I need more —" He gestures to the vein running along his neck. “— I’ll take more.”

“All right, put it away.” Crowley shivers. “It’s disgusting.”

Cas stares pointedly at him.

“You deal in bloodily fluids, Crowley. You’re King of Hell.”

“Yes, but I don’t live _in_ Hell.” He sniffs. “I’m a demon, not an animal. Besides, it’s your grace I don’t want to see, not Moose’s blood.”

Cas huffs, but he tucks the vial back under his shirt.

“So, can you do it or not?” he asks.

For perhaps the first time since Cas summoned him, Crowley drops the mask of indifference and haughtiness, and Cas sees the part of the demon he planned to appeal to all along —his strange fondness for Dean. Crowley looks at the journal, sitting closed on the table next to Cas, and Cas reads the longing in his eyes the same way he reads his own every morning when he looks in the mirror. Then Crowley’s face shutters, closed-off again, and he simply says, “Yes, I can. Call me when you need me, Feathers.”

Crowley vanishes. Cas sighs, then pulls out his phone, texting, “Thanks for the over-dramatic goodbye. Meet me Sept. 18, Pontiac, Illinois. You’ll feel the spot when you get there.”

Two weeks from now. Two weeks from now, and he’ll pull Dean out of the Empty. Cas wonders if the drop in his stomach originates from excitement or dread.


	7. Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There comes a point where Dean always wants to give in to this, this tiny pin-prick of belief that maybe Cas found him, finally. But he knows what happens as soon as he believes. The nightmares, because there’s no other way to describe them, morph out of the dreams. One second Cas smiles at him, reaching out a hand, and then in the next second, when Dean reaches out in return to touch him, Cas is on the ground, begging for his life.

_Unknown_

He hears Cas calling him.

It’s not a new sensation. He sees Cas all the time. Cas glaring at him in an alley, Cas leaving him in the Impala after Stull, Cas calling himself God. Usually, though, the Cas he sees looks sad, soft-eyed, asking if Dean’s all right. Then he's bloodied, bruised and broken on the floor, saying, “Dean, please.” 

Sometimes Dean forgets who he is, but he’s always reminded when Cas begs Dean not to kill him.

He sees Sam, too. Sam falling into the Cage, Sam saying they’re not brothers, Sam preparing to die at Dean’s hand.

For some reason, though, the Darkness likes showing him Cas the most. 

“Stop screwing with me,” Dean tells the Darkness-as-Cas voice. There’s no bite to his words. The period of time when Dean raged against his fellow inmate ended long ago. The Darkness never speaks to him, never rages back. It only shows him things.

Dean, when more coherent, sometimes thinks the Darkness might not be trapped in here with him at all, and maybe he’s just going crazy, seeing lost loved ones and hearing voices because he’s alone, left adrift in the black for years and years with nothing to keep him afloat. 

“Dean!” The voice is much more insistent now. Dean rolls over and puts his hands over his ears. He doesn’t need to close his eyes. Vision-Cas hasn’t shown up yet, bloody and sad and marking Dean as guilty.

There comes a point where Dean always wants to give in to this, this tiny pin-prick of belief that maybe Cas found him, finally. But he knows what happens as soon as he believes. The nightmares, because there’s no other way to describe them, morph out of the dreams. One second Cas smiles at him, reaching out a hand, and then in the next second, when Dean reaches out in return to touch him, Cas is on the ground, begging for his life.

Dean is so tired of watching himself kill his best friend again and again. He pushes the heels of his palms tighter against his ears.

“Dean!” Fake Cas screams into the void. “Are you there?”

A new question that Dean barely hears, muffled through his hands.

“Dean, please! If you can hear me —”

The Cas voice cuts out. Dean sighs in relief, moving his hands away from his ears. The Darkness grew bored fast this time. He sits up, listening for that phantom call, and hears nothing.

But then he sees the light.

It’s thin, like a strand of glowing thread dropped into the nothingness surrounding him. He’s never seen anything like it before.

“Dean!” The Cas voice comes back, stronger and louder. “Dean!”

Dean stands on shaky legs, waiting for the Darkness to sideswipe him, to flatten him back down the way it always does when he gets too hopeful. 

Nothing happens, but the strand of light still beams.

“It’s a trap,” he whispers, frantic and terrified even as his feet move toward it. “It’s a trap.”

“Dean!” Cas says, and he sounds like maybe he’s hiding behind the light. “Please, follow my voice if you can hear me!”

Definitely a trap. But the light looks so close. He can't resist the pull.

Then Dean feels it, the Darkness at his back, that sixth sense he’s developed whenever it’s close by, a tingling along the back of his neck. It makes him run for the light, for Cas’s voice. Trick or no, anything to get him away from the Darkness for just a few more seconds.

The last time Dean ran was — long ago. He can’t remember when. It feels strange, pumping his arms and legs, his facsimile body protesting, muscles aching, limbs wobbling. He reaches out for the light, and he feels the Darkness wrapping around his legs just as the bright thread opens around his arms. 

Dean closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he’s in a field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update: Sam and Cas take a case from a young woman named Ann Marie.
> 
> Dean's back.


	8. April 2016

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ghosts are real,” Cas says, matter-of-fact. “So are werewolves, vampires, ghouls. Demons. I happen to be an angel.” He holds out his hand, calling his grace to the surface. It pulses faintly through the veins along the back of his wrist, shining blue. “Is that proof enough for you?”
> 
> Ann Marie stares at his wrist, breathing heavily. She swallows, then looks up at Sam, questioning. Sam shrugs with one shoulder.
> 
> “You name it, we’ve seen it,” he says.

_April 2016_

One of Sam’s burner phones won’t stop ringing.

Cas eyes the box of phones and fake IDs sitting between them in the Impala, then looks up at Sam pointedly.

“I know, I know,” Sam says, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the park map he’s holding — they’re looking for a werewolf hiding somewhere in the Shoshone National Forest with very little luck — and he doesn’t bother to answer the phone. “Just let it go to voicemail. I think I’ve finally figured out where —”

Cas rolls his eyes and plucks the offending phone, an ancient Razr, from the box. He answers it with a gruff, “Hello?”

“Uh, hi,” an unsure, unfamiliar female voice says. “Um... Sorry, I was calling for Agent Page? Agent Sam Page?”

Sam looks at Cas over the top of the map, eyebrows raised. Cas hands the phone over.

“For you, Agent Page,” he says drily.

Sam purses his lips, but he takes the phone and answers smoothly, “Agent Page here.” Cas watches his eyebrows knit together in confusion, and then Sam says, “Oh, oh yeah! From the Black Spur in Beulah, right? We talked on the phone?” The woman’s voice is so faint Cas can’t make out what she’s saying, but Sam nods. “Of course, yes, it’s just been a long time....” His face suddenly plummets from surprise to pain, and Cas leans forward, ready to intervene if need be. “Uh, yeah.” Sam looks at Cas and shakes his head slightly, but he still seems troubled. “Yeah, I found him... Yeah.... No, no, that’s fine. I’m here to help...”           

Cas reaches out to take the map from Sam, who searches through the glove box for a notepad and pen. He takes the cap off the pen with his teeth and starts writing something down, still listening to the woman on the line.

“No, I did tell you to call if anything weird happened... No, no... Ann Marie, I don’t think you’re crazy, believe me...” Sam smiles faintly. “I’m in Wyoming on a case, but we can be there by tomorrow... Yeah, my partner and I.... No, there are other agents who can handle it, don’t worry... Yes, it’s fine, I promise... Okay... You too... Alright, bye.”

Sam flips the phone shut and stares out the window. Cas folds the map back up, pressing the creases down between his thumb and pointer finger, waiting for Sam to speak.

“So, uh. That was a blast from the past.”

Cas sticks the map into the glove box, then folds his hands in his lap. Sam taps the pen against his teeth in thought.

“Who was it?”

Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“A woman named Ann Marie. I only spoke to her once over the phone when... When Dean was missing.”

And there is the painful sensation of Cas’s heart twisting in his chest. They haven’t talked about Dean in a while. And they never talk about Dean as a demon, about Dean with the Mark. Cas blinks, trying to get the pressure behind his eyes to ease, trying to get the picture of a black-eyed Dean snarling at him out of his head. Trying to erase the invisible scars he still feels across his face, marking where Dean’s blows landed.

“She, uh, she works at the bar where Crowley left Dean,” Sam continues, unaware that Cas’s breath is labored and his heart is pounding too fast. “I left my number with her in case she saw him again, said he was wanted. I told her to keep an eye out for anything weird, and I guess she remembered ‘cause...” Sam waves a hand aimlessly. “She wants us to come check out some strange stuff that’s been happening at the bar.”

“Strange?” Cas manages to grit out, and Sam nods. He turns the key in the ignition.

“Supernatural, probably,” Sam says, and he pulls back onto the road. “So I guess we’re headed to Beulah.”

“That’s an eight hour drive.” Cas doesn’t mean to complain, but he’s thinking of the emptiness in Dean’s eyes, the glint of his blade in Dean’s hand, and it’s getting harder to breathe. “What about the werewolf?”

Sam tosses the burner at Cas, who watches it bounce off his clumsy, slow hands and into the floorboard.

“Call Garth,” Sam says, still not paying any attention at all.

And Cas wants to say _why? Why are we doing this for a woman we don’t even know?_ But if he says that, then he’ll have to explain why he doesn’t want to go, why he doesn’t want to think of Dean in this place, soul tattered and blackened. He doesn't want to think of what the Mark lead to. Sam doesn’t know anything about what happened the last time Cas saw Dean, and he intends to keep it that way.

So Cas picks the phone up off the floor and he calls Garth, leaning his head against the window as the ring of the phone matches the ringing in his ears.

 

///

 

She’s beautiful, Ann Marie. Beautiful and snarky and surprisingly unafraid for a civilian, and Cas can tell almost immediately that Sam is smitten with her, hanging on her every word as she leads them around the Black Spur after closing time. He’s already insisted she call them by their first names, dropping the Page/Bonham monikers as soon as she narrowed her eyes and said, “Like.. Zepp Bonham and Page?” They’re lucky she didn’t push any further than that.

“So this, as you can see, is the bar.” Ann Marie hops up onto the counter, swinging her legs over and landing gracefully on the other side. “I’m gonna need a drink for this, so...” She looks back over her shoulder, blonde ponytail swinging, and Cas watches with mild amusement as Sam leans over the bar toward her. “You guys want anything?”

Sam opens his mouth, but Cas beats him to the punch, says, “We don’t drink on the job.”

Ann Marie shrugs as she opens a bottle of Jack. “More for me, then.” Sam watches her pour a glass, and Cas watches Sam watching her.

It’s odd — she seems more like Dean’s type, but then again, Sam has been trying to fit into more of a Dean-esque role since his brother... died. Cas clenches a fist and counts to ten in his head, something he saw a character with anxiety do on some Netflix show Sam made him watch in their last motel room. He keeps his breathing even.

“This is where I saw it.” Ann Marie looks around the room, taking another sip of her drink. “I don’t know, it... One second I was cleaning up alone, the next there was somebody sitting at that table.” She points to a booth in the far end of the room, tucked almost out of eyesight behind the karaoke stage. “I thought it was an old drunk I missed at closing time, but...”

“But then he vanished,” Sam finishes for her, and she nods, looking at him evenly, not backing down.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she says, “but I know what I saw. And you said —”

“Yeah. Anything strange.” Sam drums his fingers against the countertop. “I meant it.”

Cas wanders back to the corner booth, barely listening as they continue their conversation. Ann Marie says, “This doesn’t have anything to do with that guy Dean, does it?” and his steps falter a bit. Sam says, “No, no. That case is... closed.” Cas reaches the table and lays the tips of his fingers on the scratched surface. He closes his eyes, forcing his grace to the forefront and feeling the energy around him. It’s a ghost, definitely — but not an angry one. It should be relatively simple to take care of.

“Has anyone ever died here?” he calls back over his shoulder, tracing a deep gash in the wood with one finger.

There’s a pause, then — “Uh, yeah,” Ann Marie says. “Guy named Neil had a heart attack here a couple years ago. Dead before the ambulance could get to him. It was awful. Why?”

Another pause. Cas turns around to see Sam studying his shoes. Usually Sam takes over at this point, tells the smooth lie that the civilian needs to hear, but this time he’s clearly thrown off balance. Ann Marie puts her hands on her hips.

“Why?” she repeats — sharper, suspicious.

And Cas is taken completely off guard when Sam says, “It’s most likely a ghost.”

Ann Marie’s eyes dart between them, her mouth falling open slightly.

“A – ghost?” Her disbelief is apparent. Even though she was willing to admit she saw a man disappear before her eyes, she must have continued to hope for a rational explanation where there simply isn’t one. Cas stares back at her passively, and Sam trips over himself to say, “I know what you’re thinking, but I promise I’m not —”

“Aren’t you FBI?” she says, incredulous. “You’re supposed to tell me it was some thief or something, not —“

“— crazy. Ghosts are real, Ann Marie, and there’s one haunting —”

“— a ghost? That’s just... Who are you people? If you’re jerking me around —”

Cas snaps his fingers and the lights above the bar flicker. Sam and Ann Marie fall silent. Cas snaps his fingers again and the lights blow out entirely.

He walks toward the bar on suddenly unsteady legs, wiping at a drop of blood dripping from his nose. He notes with satisfaction that Ann Marie is gaping at him. Sam tries to hide a smile by tucking his chin to his chest.

“Ghosts are real,” Cas says, matter-of-fact. “So are werewolves, vampires, ghouls. Demons. I happen to be an angel.” He holds out his hand, calling his grace to the surface. It pulses faintly through the veins along the back of his wrist, shining blue. “Is that proof enough for you?”

Ann Marie stares at his wrist, breathing heavily. She swallows, then looks up at Sam, questioning. Sam shrugs with one shoulder.

“You name it, we’ve seen it,” he says.

Ann Marie downs the rest of her drink in one go, slamming the empty glass violently on the counter. Then she looks between them, mouth twisted into a frown.

“The Loch Ness monster,” she says.

Cas looks at Sam for help, but he seems just as taken aback “Uh...”

“You said I name it, you’ve seen it,” Ann Marie says slowly. “So. The Loch Ness monster.”

“Well, no —” Sam says, just as Cas says, “Yes, but she’s been dead since the Paleolithic era.”

Ann Marie bursts out laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical cackle that ends in a cut-off snort. Sam and Cas exchange another loaded look, one of apprehension. Ann Marie shakes her head and closes her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

“I think I’m gonna need to drink the whole bottle,” she says.

 

///

 

A simple salt and burn and the ghost is gone. Ann Marie, however, is harder to get rid of.

She trails Sam and Cas to the Impala as they put away their shovels and salt, insisting they follow her back to the bar for a nightcap, asking intrusive questions as they nurse their beers.

Sam is still looking at her like she’s far more beautiful than a sunrise viewed from atop Mt. Everest, but Cas is tired and would like to go back to the motel. He thought he knew what it meant, to be the third wheel — he was always the backup to Sam and Dean, never quite a complete part of the team — but after spending just under five hours watching Sam awkwardly flirt with Ann Marie, he’s now fully aware of how Dean tried to include Cas any time he was around.

“So,” Ann Marie says, to Sam of course, because he’s where all her attention is directed, “how do you kill a vampire? Wooden stake through the heart?”

Sam laughs a little and shakes his head, rubbing his thumb along his beer bottle.

“No, no. That would just piss them off. You have to decapitate them.”

Ann Marie raises her eyebrows and lets out a low whistle.

“Bet that would take some upper body strength, huh?”

Cas hides his eye roll by chugging his beer. Sam says, “Oh, uh, yeah — I mean, I once killed one with, uh, razor wire...”

“Holy shit!”

“Yeah, it was not easy —”

“Excuse me,” Cas says to no one in particular, “I need to use the restroom.”

He’s a little unsteady on his feet after three beers; his grace tucked away now, dormant. He calls it to the forefront, ready to make himself sober. As Cas heads to the back of the bar, dodging the tables spread out in the center of the room, his hand grazes the back of a chair. He’s nearly floored by the sudden sense that _Dean was here, Dean was right here_.

Cas jerks his hand away from the chair and closes his fist. He tries that TV trick again, the counting to ten, thinking rational, factual thoughts of no great importance.

_One_. _You’re in bar in Beulah, North Dakota._

_Two. Sam is with you. Sam and the waitress. Ann Marie._

_Three. Sam’s flirting with Ann Marie._

_Four. The ghost is gone._

_Five. Dean is gone..._

Cas’s train of thought stutters and he tries to pick it back up as he stumbles into the restroom, unnoticed by Sam and Ann Marie.

“Six,” he whispers to the mildew-covered sink. “..Six.”

_Dean was here._

_Six. Dean is gone._

Cas turns on the tap and splashes water across his face. He also saw that on television, in one of the programs Metatron downloaded straight into his brain.

_Seven. Dean left you bleeding..._

The porcelain actually cracks under Cas’s hands, and that’s when he realizes he’s hanging on too hard. He lets go of the sink and takes a step back. His face is dripping, water droplets rolling off his eyelashes, down his cheekbones. Falling from his chin and onto his trench coat.

He’s lost count. The light above the sink starts to flicker. Cas’s nose is bleeding again. He rubs at the blood, and it smears across his cheek in a certain way that calls to mind a certain memory.

_Dean slams the blade down, and Cas flinches. He doesn’t see it pierce the book, doesn't hear it. He just feels it — the lack of a certain, sudden pain in his chest, though that doesn’t mean there isn’t any pain there. Dean doesn’t need an angel blade to stab him through the heart._

Cas looks at the blood drying on his cheek, on the back of his hand. _I should wash that off,_ he thinks, numb. _I should heal that._

He sticks his hand under the tap and the water rushes over it, taking away the blood and swirling it down the drain, rusty and dirty and shameful. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

Cas brings up his wet hand to wipe at his face.

It takes awhile for the blood to come off. And even when it does, there are some things he just can’t wash away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! 
> 
> And Dean will be, too — in the next update, which should be a fairly long one.


End file.
